


Smiles and Split Lips

by AggressiveWhenStartled



Series: Unusual Efforts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Female John Watson, Femlock, Genderswap, Joan is lucky she still has all her teeth, References to Suicide, Risky Behaviour, These Idiots, Women Being Awesome, girl!john, references to domestic abuse, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressiveWhenStartled/pseuds/AggressiveWhenStartled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just because Joan thinks it’s a good idea does not mean it’s a good idea." Greg yelled, exasperated. "Use your damn head and consider things just a little bit more before you let her push you in headfirst.”</p><p>“You’re blaming <i>me</i> here?” Joan blurted, incredulous.</p><p>“You’re blaming <i>Joan</i>?” Sherlock echoed, sounding equal parts thrilled and confused.</p><p>“I’ve seen you both without the other,” Greg growled, “and Joan definitely takes the cake for self-destructive behavior.”</p><p>“I do not!”</p><p>“I was a <i>drug addict</i>,” Sherlock breathed, gleefully horrified. "What did you <i>do</i>? No, don’t tell me, let me figure it out. Urban bungee jumping without measuring your ropes?”</p><p>Joan scowled. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock definitely took advantage of Joan’s issues with physical aggression. 

He could wind her up and point her at a problem and as long as he’d done all his calculations right, she would take care of that problem for him quickly and with brutal efficiency. She rarely needed her gun, although she did bring it along just in case she needed something heavy and solid to his someone with. She’d spent a lot of time, with and without Sherlock, getting used to taking assailants down fast and hard, and she’d become _very_ good at beating people bloody while still being able to claim self-defense. 

The three years Sherlock had been dead had been especially full of that last one. 

Today, though, while they had planned on thumping quite a few people in the face, Sherlock had miscalculated. They’d both ended up getting the shit beat out of them instead until the police finally showed up, and only then because Joan had seen it coming and had texted Greg before everything went south. They finished the night sitting in the back of an ambulance, listening to him bawl them out and trying not to giggle through swollen, bloody noses and split lips.

A medic tried to give them both orange blankets. They sniggered. “Don’t bother,” Greg barked, “they’re not in shock, they’re just bloody stupid.” The girl scurried off, and he turned on them.

“Is getting your arse kicked _fun_ for you?” he asked incredulously, spreading his hands in bewilderment.

“No,” Joan lied.

“Yes,” Sherlock snickered.

Greg shot him a glare that did not one bit of good. “What is it going to take to scare the two of you straight on this?” he bit out, exasperated. “You have both almost died more times than I can count. Not ‘oh hey that was close,’ but actual, serious death.” His voice went pleading. “You need to be more careful.”

Joan made a face. “Sherlock’s died once already,” she muttered, not quietly enough, and set off Sherlock, which set her off, and they were both cackling like loons as Greg scrubbed at his face, exhausted.

“Look.” Greg leaned forward to put a hand over hers, and she looked up, startled. “Do you want to get old, Joan? Because I want you to live long enough to get old. I want this idiot to do it with you.” Sherlock didn’t look at him, and instead stared at the hand touching Joan like he could incinerate it with his mind. Greg sighed and removed it. “You two are _not going to_ if you keep this up.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said coldly, “if you think you are better suited to keeping Joan safely tucked away in cotton wool—“

“Sherlock, quit being a jealous berk and shut it,” Greg snapped, clearly giving up, and Joan rolled her eyes at the both of them. “And don’t you roll your eyes at me, Christ, you’re a pair of teenagers. I deal with this shit enough at home, I don’t need you two on top of it.”

Joan tried to look guilty. “Sorry Greg. We’ll be more careful.”

“You,” Greg replied sharply, pointing a finger at her, “are a liar. Quit egging Sherlock on. And you,” he turned to Sherlock, ignoring Joan’s outraged protests, “just because Joan thinks it’s a good idea does not mean it’s a good idea. Use your damn head and consider things just a little bit more before you let her push you in headfirst.”

“You’re blaming _me_ here?” Joan blurted, incredulous.

“You’re blaming _Joan_?” Sherlock echoed, sounding equal parts thrilled and confused.

“I’ve seen you both without the other,” Greg growled, “and Joan definitely takes the cake for self-destructive behavior.”

“I do not!”

“I was a _drug addict_ ,” Sherlock persisted, gleefully horrified.

“And Joan was worse. Have your brother look up her arrest record.” Greg looked like he’d had a headache since he’d first met the two of them. He probably had. 

Joan turned to Sherlock. “Don’t you dare ask your brother for anything.” 

“What did you _do_ ,” he breathed, looking at her delightedly, “no, don’t tell me, let me figure it out. Urban bungee jumping without measuring your ropes?”

Joan scowled. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“ _This isn’t funny_ ,” Greg bellowed, ready to bang their heads together, “Get home, the two of you, and don’t get into any trouble for at least twenty-four hours, _please_. The city is sick of cleaning your blood off the pavement!”

They snickered, wincing and leaning on each other, until they got far enough away that Greg could pretend he didn’t hear them laughing maniacally up the road. They made out like teenagers in the cab Sherlock miraculously hailed, and didn’t even make it through the front door before their first clothing casualty.

“That shirt was bespoke!” Sherlock sulked, lifting the torn halves to inspect them.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it when I rip your clothes off,” Joan countered, grabbing it and tossing it behind them. Sherlock stopped complaining quickly, and they went through two condoms before they made it all the way up the stairs (although to be fair the first one wasn’t usable after it was torn along with the packet when Sherlock got overenthusiastic ripping it open with his teeth). The railing on the stairs would have to be screwed back in again, too.

Ha. Screwed.

“Okay. Twenty-four hours,” Joan wheezed ninety minutes later, laid out on their parlor rug. “We can do twenty-four hours without getting in trouble, no problem. We only have twenty two and a half left, anyway.” 

***

They lasted fourteen.

Joan had meant to keep Sherlock inside, really, but there were men to be chased through a darkened office building and who could say no to that? 

“So your time with Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered over his shoulder, moving quickly and silently down a dim corridor, “You are covered in new scars, so I assumed you’d gotten into several bar fights, but what could you have been doing that was worse than what he’s caught me at?” Sherlock glanced around the corner of a stairwell and dashed up it, taking the stairs two at a time.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Joan told him, bounding after. “Greg shouldn’t have brought it up. Anyway you’re covered in new scars, too.”

“Yes, but you know where all my scars come from. You won’t lick them unless I tell you the full history.” Sherlock was not handling the rifle he’d snagged from the gunman downstairs correctly and was likely to take his own head off. Joan tsked and he ignored her. 

“’I got it knife fighting in Dubai’ and ‘rabid vole tooth’ are not full histories, Sherlock.” She snatched the rifle from him and handed him the handgun, which he at least had more experience shooting. “They don’t do anything but alarm me.”

“They cover the essentials.”

“Anyway you know all mine too, you can tell better than I do what caused them and I’m a trained doctor.”

There was a loud report and a bullet hit the guardrail. “This is our floor,” Joan said cheerfully, and Sherlock grinned as he cracked the door and scanned the room. Joan kept her eyes on the stairs and leaned back into him, and his shoulders relaxed against her. She risked a quick look back at him and he was leering.

“It will take the useless waste of air on the stairs at least two minutes to make it to a spot with an actual shot at us.” He purred. “Want to put your hands down my trousers?”

“What is past that _door_ , Sherlock,” Joan laughed, elbowing him. He considered.

“Judging from the footprints on the carpet, three separate people have been here tonight. They’re probably not all here now. Might be, though. Next level?”

Joan bared her teeth. “We can take three,” she decided, taking out her phone. Greg had bullied her into downloading Circle of Six and had hacked one of the options to auto-send “I’m an idiot and about to die, please bring the squad to my location.” 

“Much faster than surreptitiously typing out a regular text, Joan, but you’re right next to me, I can see you doing it.”

“They won’t get here fast enough to stop the fun,” Joan countered, tapping it once and tucking her phone away, “stop complaining. Let’s go.”

***

“…Who ever heard of a one hardened criminal wiping his shoes on the mat before breaking in, much less two of them?”

“You didn’t think to look for any corroborating evidence to back up your assumption that there were only three people there?”

Joan woke up to the beep of machines and Greg yelling at Sherlock. She felt muzzy, drugged to the teeth, and would probably hurt a lot when the painkillers wore off. It shouldn’t have been as familiar a scene as it was.

“Did you just shift all your intellect from deduction over to the shagging section of your brain?” Greg continued. “You should probably even them out a bit more, and maybe just a smidgen in the basic self preservation corner.”

“You’ve spoken to Joan about our sexual practices?” Sherlock didn’t sound sure whether to be offended, jealous, or smug.

“No, your whole damn BUILDING has spoken to me about your sexual practices. Your brother has been keeping us from bothering you with noise complaints. Sherlock _focus_ , Joan was _shot_.”

“It nicked her ear.” Joan could hear the eyeroll in his voice, and she tried not to smile.

“Her ear is attached to her _head_.”

“Lestrade, let me be clear so you are sure to understand.” Sherlock’s voice went icy. He tended towards strong mood swings around Greg, a symptom of his inability to reconcile his honest regard for the D.I. and his desire to scratch his eyes out for having temerity to sleep with Joan in the past. It was usually highly entertaining to watch. “Your advice is not useful; from what you imply, you had three years to influence Joan’s behavior and not only did you fail, you failed spectacularly. The last time I made decisions for Joan’s safety without her, she threw the majority of our kitchen as close to my head as her moral code would allow and chucked me out after screaming in my face for twenty minutes.”

“Jumping off a hospital and not telling her you were only joking was a _little different_ ,” Greg replied, unimpressed.

“Do you honestly think any attempt I make to curb her enthusiasms will end better?”

“I am _right. Here_ ,” Joan croaked.

Greg snorted. “And at least you’re stuck right here for a little while and unlikely to sneak off to taunt another smuggler.”

Joan cracked a smile. “They were only exotic bird smugglers. Who worries about getting hurt by a bloke with finches down his pants?”

Greg looked pointedly at her leg.

“Broken legs are kid stuff, I can get that from a tumble down the stairs.”

Greg threw his hands in the air. “Which is what happens when a pack of bird smugglers toss you off a landing.”

Joan turned to Sherlock. “Is that what happened? I must have been unconscious by that point.”

He gave a pained smile. “That is likely for the best, it left you relaxed enough to avoid further injury. They did seem to focus on you for some reason once they had us immobilized.”

Joan shrugged. “Men usually do, once they realize I can hurt them,” she laughed. No one else joined her.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Joan looked stubbornly away and pretended to fall asleep.

After a while, she did.

***

Greg sent out a mass email warning the yard when Joan got her cast off. Apparently it was _hilarious_. She got text messages from various officers all week.

She was replying scathingly to Sally when Sherlock stood and pulled his coat on.

“Found them?” she asked, getting to her feet. Sherlock pressed his lips together.

“Perhaps you should stay in tonight,” he tried. Joan raised her eyebrows.

“If I do, are you going to go alone?” When he didn’t reply, she got her coat.

***

To say it didn’t go well was a massive understatement. 

Joan ended up with her cast back after three days without it, and a few new head wounds to go with, along with a pair of cracked ribs.

Sherlock ended up with worse.

Joan sat parked in a wheelchair, head in her hands. Her hair was still sticky with blood, scalp cold where some of it had been shaved for the stitches. She thought, distantly, that it was lucky she had such short hair to start with, and barely looked up when Greg came in quietly, closing the door behind him. He dropped into the seat next to her and set a bag of clean clothes at her feet.

“If those are yours, Sherlock doesn’t need the apoplexy he’ll get seeing me wearing them when he wakes up,” she joked weakly.

“That’s why I broke into your flat and got some of yours.” Greg leaned back against the chair and spread out to take up as much room as possible.

Joan stared at the floor. Neither spoke.

“You should probably clean up and change,” Greg said finally. “You’re making me nervous.” Joan pulled at her jumper. It stuck to her skin.

“Yeah.” She really should, but she wanted to be ready if Sherlock needed her. “You’re not yelling at me,” she whispered.

“Nope.”

“You were right,” she admitted, staring at the tile. 

“Yep.” Greg pointed at the bag. “There are two sets in there for you, so if something happens we can towel you off and toss a set on without worrying about any extra blood or soap. Sherlock won’t want to see you like this.”

She sighed and gathered her things to go wash off what she could. There was only so much she would be able to do in a wheelchair with a plaster cast and, she was suspecting, a psychosomatic limp to go with.

“What’s different about this time?” Greg asked softly. Joan turned; he was sitting forward now, hands clasped at his mouth. “I can tell it is, but… Sherlock’s caught hits before. We’re not worried if he’ll get through this one. We’re not even worried if he’ll get through this one intact.”

She smiled, faintly. “This time when we got there, he said we shouldn’t go. He said we should call you instead. I went in anyway, and he got shot because he was pushing me on the ground.”

“You’ve both done the martyr thing before.” Greg reasoned, “You’re like every stupid action film mashed together on fast forward. And he probably called off because of you, not because he didn’t want to risk himself.”

“Yeah, and it’s a lot of fun to look this kind of shit in the eye and jump,” Joan rubbed her neck. “But we always just jump together. This time I pulled him over with me.” She gave a strained laugh and rubbed her eyes. They stung. She blinked and glanced over at Greg. “It was definitely a bit not good.”

Greg didn’t say anything.

“You didn’t actually break into our flat, did you?” she asked.

“Nah, Mrs. Hudson let me in. But I would have for you, sweetheart.” He grinned and gave an exaggerated leer, standing to take the handles of her wheelchair.

Joan snorted. “Don’t let Sherlock hear you, he would drag himself from his deathbed to punch your teeth in.”

“He does get jealous,” Greg agreed blithely. “It’s lucky I’m not actually in the running. Lets get you as close to human as we can before the twerp gets out of surgery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Circle of Six is a real app. It basically lets you send pre-written messages to a group of six people you trust with two taps: things like "I need you to come pick me up right now" with a map of your current location. You should get it. Everyone should get it. Public safety for the win.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo yeah it looks like I have a tendency to plan for two chapters and then overflow into three. I would start planning three, but then I would probably end up with only two. I also lied to you all when I said it would take me a week or so to update... I was too excited to write more because I am a huge nerd.
> 
> Not as much funny stuff in this chapter, guys, but you do get to learn a lot more about Joan. I also have her and another female character (Sally) actually talk in this one! Still doesn't pass the Bechdel Test though. Need to work on that.

Recuperation was the worst.

Sherlock started going stir crazy the moment he woke up. He solved every interesting crime in the English speaking world that he could through digital means, followed by the mildly interesting ones, and finally the deadly dull ones if only to verbally eviscerate the idiots sending them to him. They made more through online payments (and thank God Joan had set those up last month) than they had their entire seriously-we-need-to-start-requiring-payment career.

Well, _Sherlock_ made it. Joan wasn’t actually doing anything but keeping him fed, which she did anyway. Even worse, as soon as she recovered enough to do some running around on the cases requiring some legwork he suddenly decided he’d had it with them and wouldn’t even look at the website. 

About two weeks after her ribs were healed spent dragging her cast about the flat feeling like a kept woman (and being driven up the wall by Sherlock), Joan called Sean. 

It was flu season, again or still depending on your point of view, and the next week saw Joan clicking along on her crutches to the clinic most evenings. It also saw a sleek black car pulling up alongside her every day on the way home. When she ignored it (she always ignored it) the payphones dogged her the entire way back to the flat. 

Today, Joan took the bar of soap she’d brought along out of her pocket and walked up to the driver’s side window. She carefully wrote “Fuck off, you insufferable twat” across the glass with it, slammed her fist down about level with the driver’s face, and walked away.

The payphones were blessedly silent the whole way home.

***

This lasted about another week before Mycroft lost patience.

Joan regained consciousness in a small, uncomfortable chair in a dark, abandoned-looking warehouse. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. 

“You know, the next time you authorize your lackeys to take me by force, I’m going to actually hurt them.” 

“They have three dislocated limbs, two bloody noses, and a concussion between the two of them,” Mycroft replied as he strolled casually from behind her. “What, pray tell, do you call that?”

“Love taps,” Joan dismissed, standing. “They’ll be right as rain in a few weeks.”

“I see.” Mycroft sounded as though she had answered an entirely different question. He gave her his most reptilian smile and pulled a familiar-looking notebook from his breast pocket. Joan almost flopped back into the chair to groan like a teenager.

“Really? This again?”

“Anger control issues. A disturbing familiarity with physical violence.”

“You know,” Joan muttered, looking at the ceiling, “I’ve read this already, and _I_ had to read it upside-down. I see you’ve managed the difficult task of obtaining confidential notes from the world’s worst therapist.”

Mycroft didn’t reply. “Displays irrational, risky and dangerous behavior, resulting in aggression for which there is no sign of remorse.” He cocked his head. “I take it this coincides with the sudden glut of police reports detailing arrests of battered assailants of small blonde women in dangerous neighborhoods?”

Joan smiled. “I look like a good victim. I was always on CCTV and it’s clear I was never the first to attack.” She looked thoughtful. “Sometimes that took a bit of work, though. It got much easier after I started wearing too much of the wrong color in certain neighborhoods.” Her eyes lit up. “Did you see the one where I took down four rapists at once? I particularly enjoyed that one.”

“If you had such distain for your therapist, why did you continue to see her?”

“Greg threatened to actually press charges if I didn’t. He let up when he caught me hanging about on bridges on the wrong side of the railings near the end, there.” Joan crossed her arms. “Does this have a point? It was pretty stupid, but in my defense I was borderline suicidal and angry as hell. If you’re only going to read me things I already know, and I know that you know, I’m going home.”

“I shall come to the point, then.” Mycroft closed the book. “I am concerned for my brother’s welfare in your company. Not only have you been engaging in even riskier behavior than was your norm together, resulting in a lengthy hospital stay and recovery, but it has been noted that he often sports rather colorful bruises and friction burns that have no obvious cause outside of your home.”

“You think I’m going to abuse Sherlock.” Joan’s face went blank, and her posture military-straight. “No. You think I’m already abusing Sherlock.”

“I’m sure it’s entirely understandable; he can be infuriating, and he never does listen to the simplest directions,” Mycroft assured her smoothly. Joan laughed.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume this is actual concern for your brother, rather than guilt about Moriarty and your constant need to control everything about his life,” Joan snarled. “Once I get past the deep offense I’m taking, I’m sure I’ll even be pleased that you are trying to stop what you think is your brother’s domestic abuse. You need to give me a moment, though, because all my latent homicidal urges are really pushing me to punch you in the face.”

Mycroft gave a wry twist of his lips. “Take your time, then.”

“Thank you.” Joan took a deep breath. “I do not, nor will I ever, hurt your brother intentionally. I cannot promise accidents will never happen, but they will be honest accidents like tripping over him in the dark, not ‘oops-baby-I-didn’t-mean-to’ accidents.”

“His bruises would say differently.”

“You’re a goddamn genius, Mycroft, how the hell do you think he _got_ those bruises?” Joan asked, frustrated. “I’d show you mine but we haven’t been up to much lately, what with the ‘lengthy hospital stay’. I have never, nor will I ever, force him to do anything, and I _always_ ask permission first.”

Mycroft frowned. “And here we come to my concern. Sherlock believed you would have been right to harm him when he came back from his time thought dead.” He gripped his umbrella, hard, the only sign he was more than mildly interested in the discussion. “I find it reasonable to assume he would offer consent regardless of his personal wishes. While Sherlock is extremely recalcitrant in all other ways, he does tend to me quite vulnerable to emotional and sexual manipulation, as in the case involving Miss Adler.”

“I can’t read Sherlock’s mind, Mycroft, but if he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying something I don’t do…” She stopped dead, and looked very hard at his face.

There was a short silence.

“You’ve bugged our flat,” Joan breathed.

“I assure you that—“

“Oh my god, you’ve bugged our flat. That… You…” Joan’s hands tightened on the back of her chair. “You sick fuck, you’ve been listening to—“

“I have operatives who monitor these things for me,” Mycroft protested, thrown. “I do have other things that occupy my attention—“

“You voyeuristic deviant,” she hissed, clenching her fists. “You sick _bastard_ , feeding your baby brother piece by piece to a deranged killer wasn’t enough, now you pay people to listen to him have sex? And you claim you’re looking out for his best interests? Why the hell do you think he never talks to you?”

“I will do whatever I must to keep him safe, and less invasive methods have proven ineffective,” Mycroft shot back. “You could be trusted before to inform me when I was needed; now I am forced to provide protection from you as well. What would you have me do? Hope he can take care of himself, as I did last time?”

“If I didn’t hit him when he came back, what the hell do you think could set me off now?” Two very large men in black suits were approaching, looking wary.

“He hasn’t informed you of his bisexuality, yet, but appears close to doing so,” Mycroft said bluntly. “I am concerned that your homophobia and inevitable fury at the deception, combined with several years of fighting multiple assailants larger than yourself, will lead to his injury.”

Joan just stared at him. Mycroft almost looked uncomfortable, as if awaiting her explosion. 

Realization dawned.

“You’ve been speaking to my mother,” Joan said softly. 

“I have had agents befriend and speak with your mother,” Mycroft corrected. “You seem to believe I have vast amounts of time that I do not, in fact, possess.”

Joan laughed and Mycroft frowned, narrowing his eyes. “This is what this is all about. Oh my God, it’s about my mother.” She bared her teeth. “I don’t pretend I’m not damaged, Mycroft, or that I make all the right decisions when it comes to Sherlock. I am ashamed of how I acted when he came back from the dead, and I’m ashamed now that I’ve gotten him hurt with my own stupid recklessness. But I saw Sherlock when he came back from three years without me, and I have heard stories about him before I found him—we are _definitely_ better with together, and I have strong enough self-esteem that you can’t use my mistakes to pry me away from him.”

Mycroft looked distasteful, like he always did when he miscalculated something, and Joan smiled.

“I did not attack my poor, hurt big brother because he came out. I did not run off to the military as soon as I was able because he liked men.” She straightened and glanced at the suits, now an actionable distance from her; she probably shouldn’t hurt them, since everyone here was stupid and crazy and emotionally compromised at the moment, but then, she was stupid and crazy and emotionally compromised. “You missed on that one. You missed by a lot. Take me home and I will try to convince Sherlock that hacking your databases in retaliation for bugging our bedroom is a bad idea.” 

She really would have to be stupid and reckless to hit Mycroft when the grunts behind her both weight roughly three times what she did, and Mycroft had the weight of the British government behind him.

Really, really reckless and stupid.

***

Sherlock looked up as she came in. “You’re late,” he said, his gaze carefully taking her in, “and you were in a fight. Two fights.”

Joan grinned and split her lip back open. “Your fucking big brother has a black eye,” she said proudly.

“So do you now, it seems,” Sherlock said, smiling back, “but well done. Did he cry? Tell me he cried.”

“Like a baby.” Joan laughed, hobbling into the kitchen.

Sherlock pouted. “I am told it’s considered bad form to lie to your partner.”

“He didn’t cry,” Joan admitted, getting out two cups and setting bread toasting, “but he did look very surprised. Not sure why,” she mused, “since he’d just finished accusing me of being likely to hit you if you ever told me you liked to kiss boys, and that he had been bugging our flat to protect against that eventuality.”

Sherlock’s face shut down. “Ah,” he said quietly, “And how did you reply, other than slipping his thugs long enough to punch him?”

“I laughed at him and told him to fuck off,” she answered, waiting for the kettle to boil. “I like to kiss boys too, and since we’re monogamous it doesn’t really matter who we’ve snogged in the past.” She paused, filling the teacups. “It does explain how you were so fantastic at kissing, though, straight off; I thought you hadn’t any experience at all.”

“Only the one,” Sherlock murmured, ignoring the mug she set to steep next to him, “and him only once. I’m told women in relationships sometimes react poorly to such information.” He brought his hands to his mouth thoughtfully. “Are we monogamous, then?”

Joan froze, her own tea halfway to her lips. She hadn’t let it steep nearly long enough, but she hadn’t been able to wait. “Ah,” she managed, “I’d assumed so, but I should have asked. I’m monogamous. I’ll probably get very jealous very fast if you aren’t, but you are free to do what you want with your body. You haven’t actually made me any promises not to.”

Sherlock frowned. “We use condoms unfailingly despite your very reliable birth control and both being clean, currently,” he said slowly. “Popular culture implies this is shows a lack of intimacy. It also implies a necessity in case of future contraction of disease from outside the relationship.”

Joan frowned, too. “That’s not about sleeping with other people, that’s about respect for your partner and being safe. When you have sex, you use a condom unless you’re in a relationship that is set to last several more years at least, like marriage, and you’re okay with having an accident that results in kids.”

“You do not feel that we will remain sexually involved for several years?” There was a pout under his voice.

“Of course I do,” Joan said immediately, “but so does everyone. It’s not about you or how much I care about you. It’s about showing my care and respect for you. I’m not going to expect you to prove you love me by putting yourself at risk if it turns out I make stupid choices. And what if birth control fails?” She shrugged. “Even if you wanted to, I don’t feel comfortable putting you in that position.”

“This is a corollary to your rules, then.”

Joan laughed. “You know, ‘being a decent person who shows respect in a relationship’ isn’t really quite as much a rule-driven oddity as you seem to be taking it as. Most of it just comes out as set rules when I try to explain it to you.”

Sherlock turned back to his computer. “I am not a ‘decent person who shows respect in a relationship,’ then?” he said neutrally. Joan set down her mug, gently, and leaned down to press a kiss into his hair. 

“You’re a person who doesn’t understand relationships or emotions, but you’re desperately trying even though you don’t like it to show,” she said softly against his scalp. “They’re hard. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. Once I explain things, you to try to listen.”

“I ‘try’,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Joan whispered into his hair. “You are amazing and unique and brilliant, and dealing with people without mimicking someone else doesn’t come easily to you. I appreciate that you don’t mimic with me. I don’t want you to.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Stop repeating yourself,” Sherlock snapped, but he didn’t shake her off. “What exactly are you sorry for? It’s not for telling me I’m a machine, again, with the added bonus of excellent recording and playback capabilities, since you keep repeating that as well.” He stopped pretending to pay attention to the laptop and pushed it away. 

“I’m saying you are new to it mattering and are still learning.” Joan put her arms around his shoulders from behind him, lips still in his curls, and he relaxed slightly despite himself. “You didn’t go through that awkward time in high school where everyone wanted to shag everyone else and had no idea what to do about it. We were all idiots, too. You remember.”

“I do,” he admitted. She could see him smiling in their reflection in the window. “It was really quite funny.”

“I’m sorry I called you a machine three years ago, too. It wasn’t fair. I was upset.”

Sherlock snorted. “It would not be unreasonable to say I goaded you into it. Intentionally.”

“You’re not responsible for my actions, Sherlock.”

“Hm.” He pulled the computer back towards him and continued sifting through email, mollified. Joan watched him, chin on his head, while their tea got cold.

“Let’s go search for Mycroft’s no doubt expensive surveillance equipment and flush it down the loo,” Sherlock said after a while. Joan smiled.

“You mean you want me to climb around bookshelves with a broken leg lifting things out of the way while you sit back and direct,” she teased.

“That’s what I said,” he replied haughtily. “Unless you want to continue displaying the saccharine nature of our relationship to his flunkies, in which case by all means, let’s leave them.”

“I’ll get the stepladder,” Joan decided.

Several hours later, they sat in the destroyed living room and Sherlock happily dipped the bugs they’d found into sulfuric acid. 

“You know,” Joan said carefully, “you don’t have to keep hiding from cases that I might be tempted to do something stupid at, i.e. all of them.”

Sherlock glanced up from the acid, then back down. One of the cameras (Joan tried not to think too hard about that one) had been dissected across a cloth next to him. “I see.”

“I’m… not going to do anything stupid like that again.”

“You have no _intention_ of doing something stupid like that again,” Sherlock corrected, still not looking up. 

Joan nodded. “You found out about the arrest records.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Did you find out about Greg catching me with one foot off the side of a bridge?”

Sherlock’s grip on the tweezers he was using to hold a portion of the camera tightened, and the tiny piece of machinery shot from them and across the room.

“I did not.”

“Ah.” Joan fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater and tried again. “If you say we aren’t doing something, we won’t do it. I’m should never have pulled you into that. It was unacceptable and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Sherlock looked up. “I would have gone were I alone at the time. What happens if we’re both stupid again?”

Joan shrugged helplessly. “But you know we can’t sit around cooped in the flat for the rest of our lives. We’ll go mad.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed unhappily, and went back to his remaining camera pieces.

***

“I wish to be monogamous as well, by the way,” Sherlock said later, when they were both recovered enough to attend crime scenes. 

“Oh my God, Sherlock, _here_?” Joan looked up from where she was crouched over half of their latest murder victim. Why they seemed to have every meaningful conversation in front of multiple witnesses and/or dead bodies lately she had no idea. “This is not the place to talk about it.” At least he’d waited until there were no police within earshot.

Sherlock frowned. “My attention on the matter usually coincides with the reminder of your recreational sex with Lestrade,” he reasoned, “it’s practical to have the conversation when the subject comes up.”

“Yes, fine, I want to be monogamous as well, thank you,” Joan replied. 

“That does mean, definitely, that you will not be sleeping with Lestrade. Correct?”

“Correct, Sherlock,” Joan threw her hands up. “I will not be sleeping with Greg. At all. I haven’t for years and _definitely_ not since I started shagging you against every mostly-stable surface in the flat. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded. “Alright,” he said calmly, “no need to get snippy.”

Joan’s mobile chirped, so she gave the body one last look before stripping her gloves and checking her messages. 

Her face froze.

“I see my brother has finally done something new,” Sherlock said, looking at her white-knuckled grip on the phone, “but I can’t tell what it is.”

“He’s contacted my brother,” Joan said softly. As soon as she’d been able to afford it (pride only goes so far on a soldier’s pension, after all, and she’d been desperate at the time he’d given the phone to her), she’d tossed Harry’s old one, with its reminders about the fiasco he’d created with Clark, into the worse rubbish she could find and had changed her number. Mycroft had forwarded her contact information along too, apparently. “He wants to go out to lunch. Meet my new boyfriend.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “He wants to scare me off his sister.”

“Likely.” She sighed. “I’ve given him another chance, so while I don’t particularly want to see him, I have less reason to avoid it. Would you like to go?”

“No. But I will.” Sherlock stood as well. “This is the second chance you have given him. Once when you returned wounded from the war, after he let you down over his failed marriage to Clark as a result of his drinking. Once at some point in your late youth when you left for the military in the first place.”

“Yes.” 

“Do you think this time will stick?”

“No.”

“Hm.” Sherlock binned his latex gloves. “When are we having lunch?” Joan turned back to her phone and after waiting for a bit, Sherlock went off to find Greg and tell him what he’d found. Joan, on the other hand, stayed and got more and more frustrated with her brother until she finally set her phone to silent and shoved it back in her pocket. She then stalked out of the building to wait for Sherlock to join her.

Sally did instead. Joan looked at her sideways.

“You know Sherlock just walked straight up to Lestrade and told him he was to stop trying to shag you because you two are monogamous now?” she informed Joan cheerfully.

“Oh god.” Joan dropped her head into her hands.

“Lestrade wanted to know if he’d had a chance with you all this time and had missed out. Sherlock looked ready to pull his hair out. Then Anderson was an idiot and asked if Sherlock could extend the deadline a bit so he could have a go.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Joan muttered, horrified.

“Yeah.” Sally looked at her shoes, then back up. “I’ve heard you’re thinking of filing a formal complaint about him. I’ll sign as a witness, if you want.”

Joan looked up and smiled weakly, surprised. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Sally shrugged and took a breath. “I’m not sorry about anything I’ve done. I’ve done my job. But I’m sorry I was a bitch about it.”

Joan nodded. “I…apology accepted.”

Sally looked uncomfortable. “The Fr… Sherlock tried to make sure he talked to Lestrade alone. Anderson and I ducked into his office mid-fight.” She shifted her weight unhappily. “He doesn’t yell at you like he does other people,” she tried, hesitantly. Joan laughed.

“Oh, he still does. But you’re right, there’s a lot less venom and he’s a lot quieter since he rose from the dead. He tries harder.”

Sally gave a sharp nod and, apparently deciding that was enough about feelings and Sherlock for the day, headed back inside.

Joan smiled the whole way back to the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like to read about kickass women with strong codes of decency, you might enjoy Cordelia's Honor by Lois McMasters Bujold (it's a compilation of two books). She's pretty much my favorite female character of all time and my Joan definitely has some of her qualities. She's strong and her sense of decency is ironclad, and she isn't a character that is made into the "strong type" by being unable to deal with feelings or get along with other, 'normal' women. I even tucked in a small reference in this chapter-- see if you can find it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now this is four chapters long. I am a big fat liar about fic length. I will absolutely end it in the next chapter. I promise. For real this time.
> 
> UPDATE: I've just finished the first draft of the last chapter and it's about twice as long as the first chapter, but I PROMISED so it's all in one. Once I go through it a few times obsessively deleting things and adding typos instead of correcting them (I really need a grammar beta) (I might even have a britpicker soon how awesome is that), I will post it up.

Joan’s leg was acting up again.

It was ridiculous. It was all in her mind, but she wasn’t even thinking about it, didn’t expect it. She’d gotten the cast off and had completely forgotten she’d ever had a limp until she took a step and tumbled, much less gracefully than she would have liked, into Sherlock. Sherlock had been at a point in his recovery where he was unable to bear her weight, and they had both collapsed painfully to the floor in front of her doctor and three nurses in the hall. As they were well known around Bart’s (and not necessarily liked), someone with a cameraphone had made them the latest email forward. Again.

Since then, Joan’s leg ached sporadically, usually at the times when she was least prepared to deal with it. Sherlock was still skittish about the jobs they were taking, hovering between tucking them both away in the flat for the foreseeable future and flailing about miserably for want of something exciting to do. The buildup of stress and uselessness meant Joan limped two days out of three. Sometimes she got lucky and went a whole week without it.

As she was currently on her way with Sherlock to have what was looking to be a truly excruciating lunch with her brother, she was limping so badly Sherlock stopped short and glared at her. He’d been snappish and rude recently (even for him), heading towards the flailing side of things again. She’d found no less than twelve human body parts dripping in the refrigerator that morning and she was not in the mood to deal with him.

Oh, and they hadn’t had sex since they’d found out Mycroft had been recording it, which made everything just _so much worse_ in _every way_.

“I find it extremely frustrating that you persist in your phantom wound after I clearly cured you of it years ago.” Sherlock was sulking, looking as put out as if the limp had been his.

Joan snorted. “Yes, and I do it just to vex you. Here, could you wait a moment?” She leaned on her cane, frustrated herself, and took a few deep breaths to get the will to walk on. He’d talked her into wearing a skirt today, and she felt ridiculous in it, hobbling around while trying to look pretty.

“Your limp doesn’t make sense. You’re under extreme stress at the moment, judging by—“

“If you tell me I’m a smelly, sweaty wreck, Sherlock, you’re making your own food for the rest of the week,” she snapped.

Sherlock went tellingly silent.

“Oh, well, thanks for that.” Joan took a final breath and clicked forward. Sherlock remained where he was, staring at her thoughtfully, then made an abrupt right turn and headed down an alley. “What—Sherlock, the restaurant is just down… oh for God’s sake,” she groaned, hobbling after him, “this is just lovely. You mad, directionless wanker, the less I want to walk the more you wander—“

Sherlock stopped, pulled her into a narrow gap in a wall, pressed her up against the brick and pushed between her legs.

Joan’s brain pulled to a halt as a sudden jolt raced through her gut. “What—“ she mumbled against his mouth, then gasped as he moved to trace her jaw with his teeth, “I…we’re in…what?” He slid his hands up deftly to tug down her knickers, and she shut up fast; it was difficult to talk, gasping for breath while your partner slid his fingers inside of you just right. 

“I am reasonably certain I destroyed every remote listening and viewing device in our flat,” Sherlock growled against her ear, and she moaned, arching up and pulling him closer by his collar. “But the chance my brother has been unusually clever hiding them…” he shuddered, then shook his head to clear it. “He’s not watching here,” he said instead, licking along her neck.

“Anyone else might,” Joan murmured. 

“As long as they’re not my brother, it doesn’t bother me.” Sherlock took his hands away long enough to hitch her up higher against the wall. She tightened her legs around his hips and crossed her ankles behind him. “And it certainly doesn’t bother you. Your breathing roughened just mentioning it.”

He was right—the giddy terror of it had her pulse pounding in her ears. “Stop talking and unzip your trousers,” she growled, fingers tangled in his curls and tongue licking into his mouth, “and if you’ve been planning this since we left Baker Street, which I rather think you have, please tell me you have a condom.”

Sherlock smugly pulled three out of his pocket, and she grinned and wrestled with his fly herself. He gasped against her skin as she touched him, then quickly jerked his trousers away, rolled one of the condoms on, and pushed solidly into her. She moaned, breathy and desperate, against his neck. “This area doesn’t show sign of much foot traffic,” he whispered into her hair, smirking, God, she could _hear_ him smirking, only a slight hitch in his voice when she was completely lost to language, “but it’s not seedy enough that no one will come looking if you make too much noise.” He adjusted his angle, and the slick, hot glide of him inside her was so perfect she had to choke back a shout. 

She bit his ear and he groaned, gripped her hips tight enough to bruise, and bucked hard into her. After that it was fast, brutal and absolutely amazing, and every whimper they failed to bite back shot a new spark through her.

Neither of them lasted long. Joan yanked Sherlock’s head back by his hair and bit him, rough, where his neck and shoulder met. He made a helpless noise in the back of his throat and slammed her hard against the wall, coming hard. Joan followed, then slid limply down the wall as he draped bonelessly against her, both gasping to catch their breath and laughing helplessly. 

“Don’t you dare try that at a crime scene,” Joan managed, pulling knickers up and grinning like a madwoman, “the yard will never have us back. Oh God. I can just imagine Sally’s face. Never. We can never do this on a case.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied ambiguously, pressing soft kisses against her shoulder between giggles. “You don’t want me to because you might go along with it.”

“I’d blame you though,” she retorted, “and so would Greg. He likes me. He’s on my side.”

“Lestrade would blame you in a moment, his one intelligence is seeing past your façade of being entirely normal and boring.” Sherlock zipped himself up with a grin (and why that was so sexy Joan couldn’t say) before tugging her back against him. “His mistake is he sees it as troubling. I do not.”

“Mm, and if that means sex in dangerously public places I don’t mind in the…” Joan trailed off as she realized that her limp, while not entirely gone, was slight enough she’d forgotten her cane further down the alley. 

Sherlock grinned wider.

“You smug shit,” she exclaimed, chucking him in the arm, “’dangerously public,’ you self-satisfied little--“

“I’m not entirely certain if I’m more pleased about almost fixing your limp twice,” he mused, dancing sideways to avoid her attempt to poke him in the side, “or the fact I did it with my prick this time. I’m beginning to understand why people like to strut around waving them about so proudly.”

“You didn’t cure me with your dick, you dick,” Joan shot back, jogging back to pick up the cane, “my response to adrenaline did it. It was entirely internal.”

“It _was_ ,” Sherlock agreed, and Joan laughed and tugged a lock of his hair fondly before strolling easily off to the café.

***

Unfortunately, Joan’s mood went sour the moment they opened the door and caught sight of her brother. He looked put upon, annoyed with her already, and she grit her teeth. She could already feel him leeching the grin from her face, and she wanted to hit something, throw something, anything to kick herself back in gear. She thought about fucking Sherlock in the alleyway only moments prior, and the smile pulled back.

“He’s going to be whiny and condescending,” she murmured to Sherlock as they approached, “and he’s going to belittle pretty much every choice I’ve ever made. I’m a big girl and can deal with him. Please do not deduce him out loud to get him back, it will only make things worse.”

“Understood,” Sherlock replied as they arrived at Harry’s table.

Harry and Joan didn’t look much alike—Harry had the same dishwater blonde hair as she did, but his features were a bit narrower, his mouth smaller, his nose shorter. Prettier, she thought with annoyance. Mostly he was just prettier.

“Sherlock Holmes? I’m Harry Watson.” Sherlock looked at his hand then back up at him as Joan slid nervously into the booth.

“Joan informs me I am forbidden to embarrass you when you insult her and I am not to verbalize my knowledge that you have been drinking since noon.”

Joan dropped her forehead to the table. “I give up,” she grumbled.

Harry’s face twisted. “Your blog’s right about this one.”

“Oh no, don’t mention the blog,” Joan moaned. Sherlock scowled at her, then at Harry, but shut up with the look she gave him. Joan squeezed his hand in thanks under the table and mustered up her brightest smile. 

“I’m sorry I never got you my new number; I must have forgotten,” she lied pleasantly and picked up her menu.

“I had to get it from Sherlock’s brother. Honestly, though, I was more concerned to find out you’d been off shagging all your co-workers,” Harry replied, looking disappointed. Joan forced herself not to crumple the pages in her hands. “It’s not my business what you do with your life, but surely you can see how terrible an idea that is. Mr. Holmes told me you were involved with a D.I. and now with your partner. Mum threw a fit when she found out.”

Joan couldn’t keep it behind her teeth. “Mum throws a fit whenever she hears anything about me, regardless of how or what I’m doing. If it’s all going to be the same, I’ll skip taking it into account when I make my choices, thanks.”

Harry gave her the look again, the one that tried to make her feel like a failure and a horrible human being. It hadn’t worked since she was sixteen, and it didn’t work now. Pissed her the hell off, though. “You should try to be more forgiving,” he replied primly. “We forgive you.”

“I haven’t done anything to be forgiven for,” she retorted brightly. “Lets drop it. How are you doing?”

Harry stared at them both for a moment, thin-lipped, but then told her all about his boring job in some boring company doing boring things. He had only been working again since the divorce with Clark; he’d been happy to mooch off of the poor man, but now he was forced to work for his money. Money that, he made sure to tell her, he happily sent portions of to their poor, miserable mother who just didn’t have enough to pull by on her own.

“It would be responsible of you to help out now that you’re a bit better off,” he concluded, eyeing Sherlock’s suit. Joan smiled tightly. “She’s upset you don’t think of her.”

“Mum would throw a fit if I gave her money, too,” she said, holding onto restraint by her fingernails. “Anyway, I don’t particularly want to help her drop my savings on whatever she fancies at the moment only to need more for groceries the day after.”

“We helped you when you fucked your life up, don’t be so judgmental,” Harry said angrily, leaning forward and sitting taller to loom over her. “You treat your family like garbage and we have nothing but love for you—“

“I was shot saving lives in service to my country, I don’t think most people would call it ‘fucking up my life.’” Joan shot back, too angry to keep calm. “Not like sending the only decent boyfriend you’ve ever had, who was supporting you financially and emotionally and asking nothing in return since that’s what you gave him, off with an STD you got cheating on him. And don’t look at Sherlock’s suit like that, like he’s going to fund mum’s laziness, I’m not taking money from him because I’m not a sucking parasite like the rest of this family! The only help I got from you was a phone you were throwing away, and you two had already sucked me dry by then so I hadn’t the savings to fall back on when I was _wounded in action_.”

Time with her brother before she snapped and shouted, again letting him make her into the crazy, emotional one: ten minutes. So much for lunch, then. At least he was probably going to yell, too.

Harry stood, furious. “Alcoholism is an illness that I deserve respect for fighting, Joan, and it wrecked my relationship, so I think I’ve already paid for it enough! It’s beneath you to throw that in my face when I am reaching out to you and trying to mend this!”

“ _You_ wrecked your relationship, Harry, and you got Clark sick while you were at it. If you were sober enough to get your damn prick up, you were sober enough to keep it the hell in your pants!” Her fingers fisted at her sides. “If you want to mend things maybe start by avoiding calling me and my life a failure.”

Luckily, Harry’s reply was cut off by the timely appearance of the waitress, and they both went quiet as she quickly took their orders and left. Joan pressed her fingers to her temples. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m glad you and mum are doing well.”

“You keep complaining about Mum having fits about you and then you do this,” Harry nagged, but he sat down and made the mistake of turning to Sherlock, who had amazingly kept his mouth shut up until now. Karma must have thought Joan was due for it after subjecting her to her brother. “I don’t know how you put up with such a nagging ballbreaker, Sherlock. She’s been like this since we were in high school, when she wasn’t off sleeping with half the rugby team.”

“—I wasn’t sleeping with them, I was _on_ the rugby team—“

Sherlock looked surprised. “You and your sister have just finished informing the entirety of this establishment that you are a philanderer and a drunk, whose irresponsible sexual behavior resulted in the infection of your partner. Your clothes clearly indicate that you spent the last three nights in different beds, and have picked up a few more problems from them as well, judging from the residue from your medications on your sleeve. Are you honestly attempting to start and win a ‘who’s a bigger slag’ contest?” He turned to Joan. “You clearly got your intelligence from your father.” Oh god, there it was, he’d already figured out that Harry was born on the wrong side of the sheets.

Harry rose, his face red and ugly, and drew back a fist. “Your brother told me you were a sociopath and a liar, Mr. Holmes, and if you’re going to—“

“Stop. Sit down.” Joan said firmly, loudly, standing abruptly and using the voice she’d had in the military. Both men sat and did what she said, then looked vaguely rueful about it. “Don’t you dare call Sherlock names, Harry. You know you deserved that, don’t call me a slut to my…” Sherlock cocked a brow, “Partner. And even if I had been sleeping with half the rugby team, I can if I want. Sherlock, the ‘who’s a bigger slag’ fight is never an option because I’m not going to be ashamed of who I shag and neither should he. I’m angry about promises he broke and risks he took, not the sex part.” She sat heavily and tried to steer things back to less explosive topics, but after a pause realized there weren’t many other than the weather, or the traffic.

“It’s hard not to want to fight back when you walk in hating me,” Harry said tightly. “You’ve despised me since I came out, don’t pretend you don’t care who I sleep with. Do you know how hard it is to love and forgive someone who hates you because of who you are?”

And that was the end of Joan’s rope. “ _Right_ ,” she said, sliding out of the booth and slapping some money down on the table. “I’m off. When you call me a homophobe, that’s my limit. You know damn well what actually happened, you were there, you _did it_ , and mum knows too.” Sherlock stood gracefully and followed her out the door. Unfortunately, so did Harry.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he shouted at her, grabbing her by the shoulder and spinning her around. Sherlock made a growling noise behind her. “You always do this, I try to reach out to you and you attack me and throw everything in my past in my face again. You’ve tossed your life away and embarrassed us over and over and then you act like we’re the bad guys—“

“I’m a doctor and a captain, I’m a wounded war veteran who solves unsolvable crimes and saves lives every day in the city you live in, I’m not an _embarrassment_ —“

“You don’t solve the crimes, he does,” Harry yelled at her, closer to her than she liked, but she wouldn’t let him make her retreat, “you just follow him around like a dog and a whore, and then you look down your nose at _me_ for letting Clark take care of me—“

“Harry you _will not speak to me like that_ \--“

“I give you everything I can and you throw it in my face,” he roared, “you’re not better than mum, you’re not better than me, you’re a failure like dad was—“

“Dad did his best by mum and me, she’s the one ripped apart everything he built and then threw it all away when he died, and you’ve done the same thing with Clark and everything he gave you—“

There was a loud smack of flesh on flesh, and Joan looked at Sherlock’s hand, covering hers where she’d caught Harry’s upraised fist. She’d forgotten he was there. He’d been almost as fast to stop the blow as she had.

She turned back to Harry, eyes calm, voice frigid. “That was your last chance, Harry. Do not contact me again. I will call the police if you do.”

***

Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent for the trip home. Joan went straight to their room and curled up in the bed, dry eyed and miserable and furious.

She started when Sherlock set the mug of tea down on the bedside table, then looked at him, all astonishment. He sulked.

“I am perfectly capable of making tea,” he said haughtily, “I simply choose not to.” Then he hesitated. “And you generally make tea when you are upset, because it calms you. Today you were too upset to make tea, so I… made it for you.” 

Joan smiled. “Thank you.” She sat up and took the cup, wrapping her fingers around its warmth and letting the steam soothe her. “I appreciate it.” 

Sherlock nodded. Then, “It’s fortunate we chose to have sex before our appointment with your brother instead of after, as neither of us are in the mood at present and your leg would likely be paining you otherwise.”

Joan stared at him. Then she snorted, dissolving into laughter so hard she nearly spilled the tea all over the duvet. Sherlock looked mildly affronted. She gasped and leaned forward to rest her forehead against his arm, cackling helplessly. “It is good, isn’t it? Oh god. At least one good thing happened today.” She wiped her eyes and giggled. Sherlock awkwardly put his arm around her shoulder and his lips to her hair.

“You liked that I did this when you were upset, I take it?” she asked, smiling into the silk of his shirt.

“Yes.”

“And knew that I would like it too.” She closed her eyes. “Empathy. Sentiment.”

“Painful sometimes, but not exactly absent from me, it seems.” He sighed. “You’re making me miserable by being miserable. Stop it.” Joan giggled again, and Sherlock smiled against her scalp. 

“You’re playing up being a prat to make me laugh,” she accused, and he made a noise of agreement.

“It’s working.”

“Yes,” she admitted, but then her smile slipped. “Go on. Deduce. You know it anyway, I’d like to know what you’ve figured out.”

Sherlock snorted. “Anderson would have figured it out.” Joan stayed silent, and he buried his fingers in the short spikes of her hair. “Your brother hit you at least once in your youth, perhaps multiple times. He was likely drunk and you had made him feel guilty about some poor behavior of his—safe to say his impulses there haven’t changed much. You struck him back and your mother pretended to believe him when he claimed you had attacked him because of his sexuality. His presence in your home drove you join the military as soon as you were able. It also explains your religious devotion to your rules about people you care about.”

Joan nodded, fingers tracing the seam of his shirt. “I joined the military because I wanted to join the military, but yes, I did it when I did to get as far away as possible. And don’t need a history to be against domestic abuse—my rules predated it.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a bit, and she tightened her grip on his waist. “You forgave Harry when he swore he had changed and introduced you to Clark.”

“Yes. I liked Clark.”

“He must have had strength of character similar to yours for you to esteem him enough to forgive your brother. Then, of course, Harry did not change at all.”

Joan nodded again. “Left Clark a wreck. The same shit I got in the café, Clark got day in, day out.” She sighed. “I’m pretty sure Harry hit him, too. I finally helped Clark leave and got him an abuse counselor. Harry doesn’t know.” She leaned further against Sherlock’s side; he seemed uncertain how to hold her. “Christ, can you imagine if he found out?” 

Sherlock’s arm tightened on her shoulders. “I imagine he would attempt to attack you with rather more force than today, and you would stop him quickly and with as little violence as possible, since you still love him.” He paused. “Does it count if _I_ hurt him?”

Joan laughed. “Still counts,” she told him, smiling, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I’m…not good at de-escalating conflict.” Sherlock admitted. “I was… I regretted setting off your argument today, so I did as you asked and stopped talking. I wanted to hurt him, but it went…rather further than I had expected and… so I didn’t. I don’t think that was the right course of action. People usually want the people they sleep with to defend them. I didn’t defend you. But you asked me not to.” 

“I did. Thank you.”

Sherlock pulled back and peered at her. He looked pained. “I don’t think this is fair. Is that always the case? You removed Clark from Harry but I was not allowed to remove you. You expect Lestrade to speak up for you if Anderson makes sexual overtures but I am not allowed to do the same. I was… when he tried to hit you I didn’t know if you wanted me to stop him but I couldn’t not.”

Joan sighed. “No. It’s not always the case. I…” she trailed off. “I’m making it more complicated than it is. You were right to stop him from hitting me. I don’t have to do everything alone to prove I’m strong enough. I’m sorry I make it complicated.”

Sherlock still looked unsure. Joan had a horrible vision of the likely near future.

“But please don’t get into shrieking fights with Anderson when he’s a dick,” she said quickly. “Just…” She fished for a way to put it. “If someone says something, just tell them it’s not acceptable and ask me if I want to leave. If someone tries to hurt me, stop them. I can do it myself, but it’s not necessary to do it myself all the time. I didn’t mean to confuse you. I know it gives you trouble when I give you conflicting data.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away, then put his arm back around her. “I’m not good at physical contact for the purpose of comfort, either,” he said unhappily.

Joan smiled and shifted closer. “Yes you are. Don’t fish for compliments. You’ve too much to get a big head about already.”

“That’s true,” he mused, and she laughed and drank her tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY CLICHES IN THIS SERIES. Genderswap? Check! Sherlock is magically amazing his first time at sex? Check! Sherlock heals Watson with his mighty wang? CHECK!
> 
> It's like I'm playing bingo with them or something.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE? I DIDN'T LIE. This would have been even longer but every time a scene started adding more storyline instead of tying up what I already had, I cut the entire thing and stuck it into the next story in the series. So I already have a start on that (although knowing me I will slice those up too and be left with only one or two lines).
> 
> UPDATES AT THE END ABOUT FUTURE FICS (coming soon!)

Sherlock was like a big, annoying housecat.

They would start the night, for a very short time, wrapped up around each other, Sherlock practically engulfing her as he had longer limbs to wrap. He had no sense of placement for them, either; most evenings saw her cough as she inhaled his hair, or partially smother on his arm draped across her face. Overall though, it started out quite nice, until he seemed to gain weight as he slept and then he was _heavy_.

Still, that never mattered for long, because soon he would suddenly decide it was just _too much contact_ , flail madly to get away and take up as much of the mattress on his own as he possibly could. Joan usually started the night as far to the edge as she could and let him get through his nightly gymnastics before she even tried to sleep.

She’d gotten used to it quickly, the same way she’d gotten used to mortar shells in the desert and human hands falling out on her from the over-packed freezer. She got used to it the way she got used to the same sort of behavior when he was awake; desperately needing her attention _right this moment_ and then angrily driving her off in the next breath. He couldn’t help it. He wanted her around but he could get overwhelmed; he wasn’t used to relationships and to be honest, this one was a bit overwhelming.

Especially when you tossed his (obnoxious piece of shit) brother into the mix. Sherlock’s phone had been ringing, going to voicemail, then ringing again for at least twenty minutes now, so of course the next phone to ring was hers.

“I’m not his secretary, and I’m not speaking to you,” she said when she picked up. “You should take a hint.”

“I’d hoped to speak with him about a small matter I could use his expertise on,” Mycroft said smoothly, and she glared. He probably couldn’t see her, but then, there was always a chance they’d missed a bug. 

“Hm, I rather think you may have missed out on getting his help when you forcibly kidnapped and beat his partner.”

She could hear his slick smile in his voice. “Yes, well, from a certain point of view you did rather force my hand.” The threat now was implied so heavily she nearly laughed.

Nearly. Being an adrenaline junkie was definitely going to kill her someday, but she was making a concerted effort to resist.

“Tell you what, Mycroft, I will come to your office once.” Sherlock’s head shot up and he frowned, angry. “One time. You can say whatever you still need to say, whatever further manipulations you have for me, and be done with it. I’m not speaking to you again after that, I will not pick up this phone when you call, and if you send anyone after me again I will hurt them as much as I can. And you’ve seen the CCTV; that’s a lot.”

Mycroft considered. “I could just have you killed. Arrested. Disappeared.”

“You won’t,” Joan said confidently. Mycroft would only ever see his brother again after one of those when Sherlock turned up to slit his neck in the night.

“Mm. My office then. Tomorrow at one?”

Joan hung up without a reply, and wished she had a land line so it would have been more dramatic than pressing the end button on her mobile. Sherlock was angrily tossing experiments around the kitchen table, clearly not actually working on anything. “Aren’t you going to tell me what a bad idea this is?” she asked him.

“You know it’s a bad idea,” Sherlock replied angrily, not looking at her, “but you are entitled to your own decisions and I can’t make them for you.”

Joan smiled. “You _were_ listening in the last fight we had.”

“I am always listening to you, it’s only I am sometimes not attending to what you are telling me.” Joan laughed and picked up the tray of fingers to dispose of properly.

“Well, pay attention to your phone tomorrow, I may end up needing you to break me out of a secret government prison.”

Sherlock sulked. 

***

Mycroft’s office always seemed to be in a different place, and she always needed directions to find it. Knowing him, he probably _did_ move it in between visits. Joan was leaning a bit on her cane, walking too much and too far in the damn maze of a building, having difficulty enough that she was staring at the ground instead of where she was going, and ran headlong into some twerp in a suit. They both stumbled back, surprised.

“I’m so sorry, I…” She trailed off, staring.

Sebastian fucking Wilkes. 

It was clearly not a coincidence. So completely clearly not a coincidence. She glared up at the security camera in the corner, tried to make her face say ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ as obviously as possible, then turned back to Sebastian with a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. Just finished up a meeting with Mycroft Holmes, I take it?”

“I have, actually,” Sebastian smiled back. It would have felt even slimier than Mycroft’s if he didn’t imbue it with that public school charm. Joan hated public school charm. “I never thought you’d last with Sherlock, and here you are, picking up his trick yourself.”

“It wasn’t too much of a stretch,” she replied wryly. “Well, have a nice day then—“

“Mycroft tells me you and Sherlock are involved? I’d rather thought you had been from the start?” Joan winced internally. Of course Mycroft had primed him for whatever he’d wanted them to talk about, of _course_ it was the first thing on his mind. Sebastian Wilkes had no real business here but what Mycroft had invented, and he would have twisted things far too well for Joan to get away unscathed. She was bloody well going to try anyway.

“Yes, that was clear from your tone of voice when you asked if we were friends,” she replied. “Must be off, though—“

“I can’t imagine you can stand it this long. He’s enthusiastic, but he’s so _weird_ about everything.”

“I like weird,” Joan said vaguely, but then paused, the words dying on her tongue in dawning horror.

“I’m sure it’s fine for some situations,” Sebastian continued, “but I really had to draw the line at the bedroom.”

Oh God.

She was talking to Sherlock’s ex. His only ex. They were having a passive aggressive ‘the old flame sizes up the replacement’ conversation right here in the posh hallway of a government office building. 

And Mycroft bloody Holmes was videotaping it.

The manipulative _wanker_. Right. Joan didn’t want to have this conversation, but now she was angry, and she did stupid things when she got angry. 

“We have lots of fantastic sex against every surface we can find, get along famously, are doing quite well in pretty much every aspect of our romantic and professional relationships, and he doesn’t talk about you at all.”

Sebastian stared. Joan couldn’t believe what was coming out of her own mouth, either. She tried to shut up, but her voice just went on without her.

“That is what you were fishing for, right? Oh, and you wanted to talk down his bedroom skills in a show of fellow-feeling for me. Sorry, I can’t complain in the slightest there. It must get very boring for you if you keep the weird stuff out of sex, those are the best parts.” She finally clicked her mouth shut and stopped, plastering on a huge grin to cover it. 

“He’s… I mean he’s desperate to please, and he does…does anything you ask, but…” Sebastian stuttered, clearly off balance. His targets probably stood still for him. He was going to set her right off again if he kept this up. “You must be wonderfully patient when he tries to do his little experiments on you.”

“I _love_ when he experiments on me,” she purred, showing teeth. “I’m off though, have fun talking about what a slag I am to your coworkers. Try to convince yourself sex with either your wife or your mistress is as amazing as what we’re having.” She turned to go, then turned back. “Oh! Forgot something—“

She socked him, hard, in the stomach, and he curled over on himself. “Don’t talk about Sherlock like that. Don’t talk to me like that. You will treat us with respect when you see us and we won’t look too hard at your business, even though I’m sure someone like you would never have anything to find that could hurt your career. Yes?”

He nodded mutely, and she smiled sunnily. “Well then! I really am off.” She left him gasping for breath in the hallway and only felt a tiny bit guilty. She was probably going to punch Mycroft again too. Maybe she would get the chance to do it twice this time. 

It was clearly not her day for reasonable self-control. Might as well enjoy it.

Heaven only knew what Mycroft had deduced, correctly or not, from this encounter. He seemed quite happy to believe the worst of her. When she did finally locate his office, he was carefully on the opposite side of a very wide, very solid desk. The furniture was too heavy to pick up and swing at him, and the lighting was all wall-mounted and useless for it as well. There was a very large mirror on the wall that was undoubtedly a two way mirror, as well. Joan gave a mental shrug. She could definitely get a few hits in anyway before she was dragged off.

Mycroft smiled tightly, clearly reading the thought on her face. Her mouth decided to run off without her as soon as he got out, “Joan, how are y—“

“Your problem is that you are always the smartest man in the room.” She was sick of this little dance, and the direct approach had worked on Sebastian; might as well try it here. “It means you underestimate people. I can be across this desk with that pen through your eye before your men can come in and shoot me, and you have already set a precedent for letting me into your office quite cross with you.”

There was a long pause while Mycroft looked at her assessingly. The best way to deal with Mycroft was absolute honesty. She couldn’t out-think him, and he would read the truth in her anyway; she had a very expressive face. She simply had to decide how she felt about things, what she would do about them, and go from there.

It wasn’t that she was unafraid of Mycroft—she was terrified of him. He really would have her killed if he thought he needed to. But this game he was playing with her and Sherlock was going to turn them all murderous soon, so she figured it was best to let Mycroft know that he were absolutely right—she would be the first of them to do so.

“And then you would be dead,” Mycroft finally pointed out, and Joan smiled.

“Yes, so I would definitely rather not do it.” She sat in one of the chairs and crossed her legs. “But you are setting yourself up as a danger to Sherlock and that means I am getting concerned. I’ve revised my conclusions about your motivations—only deep sentiment and concern for Sherlock would make you this stupid. But I’m also thinking about a brother who thinks that spilling Sherlock’s secrets, the things he lies about to the person he cares about most, is acceptable. Who feels that videotaping and showing his staff recordings of Sherlock having sex is acceptable. That’s straight-up sexual abuse, and you actually think that’s okay. I’m wondering what else is okay. I’m wondering how much you will hurt Sherlock to prevent anyone else from doing it first, and I’m getting nervous. You’ve proven that nervous people do stupid things already.”

“I’m…” Mycroft frowned. “You…have a point.”

Joan laughed. “Which one? The fact that you are abusing him to prevent me from doing it, the fact that you are certain I’m madly violent but somehow think you’re safe, or the part where you’re emotionally compromised and making the dumbest mistakes I’ve ever seen in a Holmes, and your brother lit the curtains on fire last week?”

“Yes,” he replied succinctly, and in that moment he was so achingly similar to Sherlock that the anger slipped right out of her. If he’d done it on purpose, at least he was getting smarter about his manipulations. She sighed.

“If you ever dropped by or called and weren’t trying to trick one of us into doing something for you, you’d probably find us a lot happier to talk to you,” she said, getting up to go. 

“I will take it under advisement,” he said quietly.

“Get the rest of the bugs out of our flat first so Sherlock and I can have sex on the kitchen table again,” she called back over her shoulder as she left.

***

Sherlock was wearing his most expensive suit and cleaning both of her guns when she got back home. They were neatly laid out across a clean cloth (which looked like the remains of one of her shirts, the prat) and the safe they’d been locked in was sitting wide open next to him.

“Those are mine, you know,” she offered, “and I locked them in the safe for a reason.”

“I’ve been able to open safes as simple as that since I was five, you might as well have kept them in your bedroom drawer.” Sherlock sniffed, but he stopped fiddling with them. “And you can hardly blame me; you had a 50% chance of needing a valiant rescue, especially since you looked ready to make a serious threat on Mycroft’s life when you left today.” Joan must have looked mildly guilty, because Sherlock’s next words died off and he began re-assembling her firearms as quickly as he was able. “You did. You threatened my brother’s life. You don’t lie at all well, Joan, he’ll know you meant it.”

Joan took his hands to still them, and he looked as though he were physically holding himself back from throwing her off. His eyes snapped. “Joan, you said I was allowed to prevent harm done to you. You have been unbelievably stupid and are going to have harm done to you in the very near future. Let go or I will have to hurt you to prevent that danger, which you have also given me permission to do.”

“He’s not going to kill me. I don’t think. Probably not, anyway.”

Sherlock snorted. “He will. Do not underestimate him. Let me go, Joan.”

“No he won’t, because it’s the best way to lose you entirely.” Sherlock paused.

“Sentiment,” he said, hesitantly.

“Sentiment,” she agreed. Sherlock nodded, once, and she let him go in order to pick up her firearms and put them away properly, then hefted the safe and staggered back into the bedroom with it.

“You are feeling guilty,” he said when she came back. “Why?” His eyes narrowed. “He told you something you don’t think I want you to know.”

Joan sat across from him. “He made sure I ran into Sebastian Wilkes today.”

Sherlock sat forward, face blank again. “Ah. And now you know that I’ve lied to you again.”

Joan clasped her hands and leaned forward as well, elbows on her knees. “I know that Sebastian implied that you were involved intimately. That does not mean you have lied to me.”

Sherlock face clenched. “But now I have confirmed it,” he hissed. “Sentiment.” 

There was really nothing she could say that wasn’t patronizing or obnoxious, so she said, “I really don’t mind if you lie to me about this. It’s fine.”

Sherlock looked startled, then searching, then confused. He leaned into her space to examine her more closely, and she didn’t flinch. Like with Mycroft, the best thing to be with Sherlock was honest. “You will not tolerate lies from me,” he murmured finally, eyes on hers, “but you’re not lying about this now. You don’t mind. Why?”

“It’s not my secret,” Joan said softly. “It’s your past, it’s your life, and it has nothing to do with me. I don’t have a right to your secrets because I’m shagging you, or because I love you. If you don’t want to, or don’t feel safe, telling me about your past, you don’t have to. All I can do is show you it’s safe as well as I can, and if you want to, I want to know.” She took a deep breath and looked at her hands. “I want you to. It won’t change anything, because I love you, but I want to love all of you. But that’s not up to me, and if I push for an answer you don’t want to give, and you lie, well, it’s fine.”

“That is not what you said the last time I lied to you.”

“The last time you lied to me I found out later you had been keeping leeches in the teapot again. Which is disgusting, by the way.”

Sherlock gave a frustrated sound and flopped back in his chair. “My sexual practices in the past are fine to lie about, but vitally important experiments that you would flush down the sink are not.”

Joan raised her eyebrows. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand the difference. Which one were you more afraid of me finding out?”

He was silent, and then he said, “You haven’t said that you loved me before. Is this to show me it’s safe for you to know of my past sexual history?” He didn’t look at her. 

Joan’s stomach knotted, and she sank to her knees before him and took his face in her hands. His eyes stayed stubbornly down. “No. Sherlock.” He rested his forehead against hers, and she ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m not… that’s not a tool. When I say I have to show you I can be trusted, I would be showing you anyway because I want to treat you that way. I’m…I’ll never manipulate you with this. With us.” She moved away slightly, touching his cheek. “Look at me. I’m rubbish at lying.” Sherlock shook his head. “Anything consensual that you did with anyone else up until now is fine. It will not upset me. Anything nonconsensual will upset me because I love you, but it will not change how I think about you or treat you unless you want it to.” 

Sherlock made a small noise to show he was listening, but still wouldn’t meet her eyes. Joan sighed. “You’re not looking at me because you don’t want to see me lying about this. Look at me,” she smiled. “Or are you afraid?”

Sherlock raised his eyes and brought the full force of his attention on her face. “That was manipulation,” he said softly.

She nodded. “Yes it was. This is not. I do not care who you slept with when you had not promised me not to. I love you and that won’t change.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “I could change it.”

Joan laughed. “You won’t, though.”

“I might,” Sherlock whispered, “but I won’t mean to.”

***

Greg was still trying to keep them out of cases that could lead to Joan getting them both killed, but the next day a couple of suits showed up, broke a hole in the plaster and took out a really expensive listening device, and handed off a “small matter” Mycroft thought Sherlock might be interested in.

Sherlock very nearly set it on fire.

Joan snatched it before he had the chance and tucked it behind her back. Sherlock gave her a withering look. 

“My arms are much longer than yours, I can just reach around you and get it.” 

“Let’s solve it.” Joan breathed in his ear when he tried, and she arched up against him to hear his own breathing hitch. His hands went to her hips and dragged her against him, but pulled his head back enough to look at her quizzically. “It’s not a favor, it’s an apology,” she told him, ducking forward to kiss his jaw, “and we can tell him to go to hell if you want to, but if it’s an apology it’s going to be something fun that you will love. I bet there’s murders. I bet there’s lots of dangerous people to chase. I bet you’ll get to show off how very, very clever you are. But if you don’t even want to glance at it…”

“I see you’re fine with sexual manipulation as long as you’re sure you’re obvious enough about it, but yes, _fine_ , let me have a look,” Sherlock grumbled crossly, lifting her up onto the table and snatching the file from her hands. He didn’t move from between her legs. “I’m sure it’s nothing interesting at all, just a bit of legwork Mycroft wants me to…” He stopped, frowning at the first page, then flipped back through them to take out a few photographs and hold them to the light. 

Joan grinned, locked her ankles behind him, and arched up. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered but his gaze stayed on the photos. “They _are_ interesting.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to her, then back. “A bit.”

The familiar jump of her nerves was back. She was such an addict. She didn’t care. “Let’s solve it,” she egged him, sitting back up. “It’ll be fun.”

Sherlock grinned. “Yes, yes, alright. Work, work, work.”

Joan laughed. “Yes, you’re such a martyr. Tell me what you’ve deduced already.”

***

After three days of chancy sleep (if Sherlock was up thinking he was apparently going to make sure Joan was too), standing about while Sherlock stared excitedly at dirt and specks of blood, and running around in the dark, Joan’s limp was nearly gone. They were currently hiding in the attic roof of an abandoned building, waiting for their suspect to show up and trying not to giggle. 

“…and then,” Sherlock was whispering to her, aghast, “the idiot uses his _own name_ spelled _backwards_ as his code name.”

“The criminal class nowadays,” Joan sniggered back, “so disappointing.”

“It’s almost not worth my time—Wait. He’s here.” Joan’s pulse sped up and they grinned at each other before shuffling closer to the crack beside the trapdoor.

The front door creaked open and two men with guns crept inside, looked around, and relaxed. Joan turned to Sherlock.

“We can take two,” she breathed, barely audible. “If we wait for them to get really sloppy with their guns.”

Sherlock nodded and crouched, ready.

The two below them looked around a bit more. They were portly, unused to their weapons, doing the work of someone else smart enough to make the case interesting but cheap enough to hire amateurs. Taking them into custody would be fun and exciting, but hardly reckless.

Until, of course, they called through the door to four of their equally armed friends. Joan groaned and covered her face. Shit. 

Sherlock caught her hand in his. “We can still do this,” he said softly. “We can take them. They’re disordered, untrained. They will wander off and we’ll drop on a few of them at a time.”

Joan grinned back at him. That sounded like a great idea. But… 

“Hold on.” She pulled out her mobile and texted Greg, then shuffled a bit back from the trapdoor and to the cramped window on the alley side of the house. Sherlock followed suit, eyebrows drawn together. 

“I bet you five pounds,” she said quietly, “that we can get out of the attic, down the back of this house, and in each other’s pants quick enough to sort ourselves back out before Greg’s squad gets here.”

Sherlock’s eyes went dark and Joan stifled a squeak as he snaked his fingers into her waistband and pulled her up against him. “How quiet can you be?” His lips were on her neck, and she made a soft choked sound. “Because I don’t see why we need to leave. We can just wait. Right. Here.” He emphasized each word with a slow grind of his hips against hers and she bit his shoulder to stifle her moan. “Until the police get here. The attic is fairly well insulated, no one should hear us unless you get too loud.” 

The room was quiet, but she could vaguely hear voices downstairs. She wouldn’t be able to make any loud thumps against the floor, either. 

He followed her gaze and smirked. “Just think—what if they _did_ hear us,” he breathed, reaching down and unzipping her jeans. “They could. They’d hear you moaning with my fingers inside of you, curled up the way that always makes you scream.” His hand was in her knickers while she yanked open his fly, brushing against her. Her knees buckled, and he held her against him with his other hand as she gasped and writhed against him, his thigh between hers and sliding up against her. “It wouldn’t have to be much. A creak when we shifted our weight and I knelt to put my tongue on you.” He grinned as she huffed and ripped his shirt open, buttons flying. “Fine, in you.”

“You have a filthy mouth, Sherlock Holmes,” Joan whispered, freeing his cock from his trousers and palming it. His retort cut off with a groan and he ground against her, and she squirmed as he slid his fingers deeper. “You’re going to get us both caught. They’re going to burst through the trapdoor the second they hear you shouting with your prick in my hands.” They were still wearing all their clothes; his shirt and trousers open, his coat falling from his shoulders, her jeans low on her hips and sweater rucked up. He ran his fingertips across her breast and she moaned a bit too loudly, then glanced down at the trapdoor.

“Did they hear you?” Sherlock breathed out a laugh and ripped open a condom. They’d both brought some. Just in case. “Tell me. Can you hear them?”

The voices weren’t getting closer, and they didn’t sound concerned or angry. “Safe still,” she panted, taking the condom and rolling it onto him. He hissed through his teeth and bucked against her hand. “But not for long. Greg thinks we’re getting the shit kicked out of us again so he’ll be here any minute.” She leaned back against the windowsill (thank god it was pitch dark in the attic room, no one on the street could see them) and Sherlock tugged her jeans over her hips to trap her legs midway down her thighs. Her knees were up and barely had room to fit around his narrow waist. Sherlock dragged his cock slowly up against her, back and forth, and she grabbed his hair for leverage and yanked herself up and onto him in one swift move. Sherlock grunted and stilled, then slid slowly out before thrusting back in. Joan bit down on any part of him she could find, then dropped her head back against the window with a soft thunk as he repeated the movement, accurately and perfectly, hitting her just right with every stroke.

She saw a flash of red light reflected on Sherlock’s face before it cut off suddenly. Police cars outside, with their sirens off and now their lights.

“Here comes Lestrade, your white knight come to save you,” Sherlock muttered, slowing. “Let’s hope he doesn’t look up at the window.”

“He can’t see shit through the window, shut your jealous mouth and fuck me before he gets here.” Sherlock laughed, deep and hoarse, and snapped forward. Joan dug her nails into his back and tried not to scream. Her legs were trapped up against him, back cold against the glass, and Sherlock pulled her hands away to lace their fingers together and raise them above her head on the lintel.

She gasped.

“He can’t see you if he’s not looking,” Sherlock said against her skin, and she snapped her teeth at him. He drew back, grinning. “And the window is right under the eaves and in a deep shadow. But there was that flash of their lights—if he saw something, he might look more closely, see an outline—“

“I am going to tie you to the table when we get home and tease the smug right out of you, Sherlock, _fuck me_.” She nipped his ear and he thrust into her, fast and hard, and she moaned into his curls. Too loud.

The voices below them stopped. Sherlock laughed silently at her and she smothered a giggle. “Oh God, this is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” she breathed. “What are we doing?”

“One noise is nothing.” He panted in her ear, not slowing in the least, taking them both apart while armed gunmen were about to burst in and kill them both. “Don’t… make any more and they’ll ignore it. First rule of—ah—burglary.” 

“Sherlock Holmes, you are going to _kill me_ ,” Joan gasped, and he kissed her to stifle her sob as she came. 

There was a slam and a loud shout below, and suddenly everyone was yelling and shooting and Sherlock slammed into her, his loud groan covered by the noise.

“JOAN!” came a panicked holler from downstairs. “Joan, _where the fuck are you two?_ Are you alright? _Joan_!”

“Up here!” she yelled back, untangling frantically from Sherlock, who was already laughing and pulling up his pants. “We’re fine! No rush! Christ,” she added in an undertone, “We are both _so damn lucky_ danger makes us come like teenagers.” She yanked up her jeans and tried to smooth her shirt down, already regretting ripping open Sherlock’s shirt. Thank goodness her hair was too short to get really messy.

“He would have turned right back around and gone downstairs if we had needed extra time,” Sherlock snickered, and Joan couldn’t help herself; she giggled. 

“Shut up shut up he’s coming,” she wheezed, fighting laughter, “this was such a terrible idea, what was I thinking?”

“This was a _fantastic_ idea and you should have it more often,” Sherlock corrected, and Greg burst through the door with his gun and torch out ahead of him. He paused, turned the torch on them, and took in their flushed faces and Sherlock’s shirt. The little shit hadn’t even tried to close his coat over it.

“The fuck are you doing up here?” Greg exploded. “When we didn’t see you bleeding all over the floor downstairs we thought it meant you were already dead in the dumpsters out back!” 

“You wanted me to stop jumping into stuff like that,” Joan said reasonably. “I texted you and we waited for you guys to get here.”

Greg’s face was eloquent.

“We did snog a bit while we were waiting.” Sherlock added.

Greg stared at him, then looked at Joan, who was blushing to her toes. “A very little bit,” she managed, trying not to giggle again. 

“We thought you were both dead and you were upstairs eating each other’s faces instead?” Greg exploded, and Joan couldn’t keep it back anymore—she let out a howl of laugher and set off Sherlock, and they were both gasping and hiccupping with tears in their eyes.

Greg put his hand over his eyes as they snorted and cackled, leaning into each other. Joan stumbled sideways, she was laughing so hard, and Sherlock only barely caught her, which set them both into harder whoops.

“Christ. You’re right, pashing in the attic is better than getting your head smashed repeatedly against the cement again. Fine. Sherlock, do up your coat before you go downstairs or Anderson isn’t going to be the only one propositioning Joan the minute you’re gone, you’ve bite marks all the way around your neck.”

“He only had it open because he wanted you to see them,” Joan said apologetically between gasps for breath, and Greg rolled his eyes. “He still thinks you’re going to sweep in and take me someday.”

“Yes, thank you Sherlock, I hadn’t known until this very moment you and Joan were together, I missed _every other time_ you’ve paraded your bruises in front of me. I had been planning on talking Joan into taking me against that window, but you’ve convinced me otherwise.”

“That’s good to hear,” Sherlock replied cheerfully. Greg looked like he wanted to slam his head against the wall. Or Sherlock’s. Either, really. 

He sighed. “Downstairs, the both of you. Christ. Go home, I don’t want to find you necking in the back of a squad car.” They snickered and managed to get down from the attic without breaking their necks, hail a taxi in the middle of the night (how did Sherlock do that?), and stumble into 221B, where Joan tried unsuccessfully to fuck the smug out of Sherlock. They both enjoyed trying, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few questions for you guys:
> 
>   * What things are you interested in finding out more about later in the series? I can't promise they will fit with the stories and that I'll include them, but I'd like to know if there are any points I need to explain or expand, or if there are any places I left big plotholes I need to patch up later (I'm STILL patching up the magical sex expert virgin Sherlock one, although that's turned into an even better plot point I think). 
>   * I'm thinking of going more into Sherlock's jealousy and difficulty being overwhelmed with feelings in the next one. And maybe bringing in Irene maybe I don't know maybe. Sound interesting? 
>   * I'm also considering doing a self-indulgent spinoff AU of this AU where Joan and Sherlock meet when Joan is fifteen and he's a little kid. Would you a) be interested, and b) should I stick it in as an interlude in this series, or make it a completely separate fic?
>   * PLEASE DOES ANYONE WANT TO BETA. (UPDATE: I now have a beta! Thank you everyone who offered, I just went with the first one, so please don't feel like I didn't like you!
> 

> 
> UPDATE: I have the first chapter of the next fic finished and will be sending it to my wonderful new beta Alchymyst soon! Thank you! I also want to say thanks to Doggoneslow who may be able to britpick for me, we'll see if it works out for your schedule and all :D. This means that my updates may come a bit more slowly than they have been, but that the final product will be much higher quality! Thank you everyone who comments as well-- the discussions and thoughts you've shared are holding me to a higher standard and making me really excited to write, as well as making me think about the characters and build them further in my head, which DEFINITELY makes for better writing. THANK YOU.


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